what we are doing when we don't much know what we're doing
I’m watching out the window of a plane, the way the clouds and the shadows of the clouds on the ground create a diorama of America, of land, of Rocky Mountains, and I’m feeling kind of lousy and hung over and out of ideas. I smell a little of vomit (not mine). The book tour, it was a success as far as I can tell. Mike and Joey tolerated me, I guess, and I sold and signed a lot of books in Seattle and Portland. San Francisco was more Joey’s town, partly because books about gender queer frustrated youth sell well there for some strange reason, and partly because he really nailed the goddamn reading whereas I felt a little off my game. It was kind of a bummer way to end the tour, but that feeling lasted all of five minutes and overall the experience was wonderful.
I met a lot of good people and drank a lot of bad beer. Joey got pepper sprayed. We all sat on the roof of our hotel and watched the fog roll in over the Golden Gate bridge. A girl called me and told me she wasn’t going to hang up unless I touched myself. I gave the phone to April. APE wasn’t really my scene, but I had a good time anyway. I promised someone who came to hear us read that I would slap him in the face before the night was over, and then I did. We went to an arcade in Portland where all the games were a quarter. Someone gave us ice cream cake. Most of the details I’ll leave out, because I’m sure Mike and Joey are going to write it all up and exaggerate it, make me look bad in whatever ways they can, then put it in a zine.
I wrote some stuff while I was on the 17 hour hangover train from Portland to San Fran, and I was going to type it up here, but now it does not seem worth it. So I will not! Take it easy, Imaginary Audience.